IN THE WOODS OF RYDAL

Wild Redbreast! hadst them at Jemima's lip Pecked, as at mine, thus boldly, Love might say A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip Its glistening dews: but hallowed is the clay Which the Muse warms; and I, whose head is grey, Am not unworthy of thy fellowship; Nor could I let one thought—one motion—slip That might thy sylvan confidence betray. For are we not all His without whose care Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to the ground? Who gives his Angels wings to speed through air, And rolls the planets through the blue profound; Then peck or perch, fond Flutterer! nor forbear To trust a Poet in still musings bound.